an architectural visionary, like crazy, man,
very outré, you know what I mean?
-I mean he doesn’t have a degree
or license, but some of his designs
have actually been built-
I won’t mention his name,
you can find it easily enough.
I found his paintings in the late sixties
in The Realist, the socio-political-
religious criticism and satire magazine.
His paintings look a lot like
the ones I’ve seen in books that feature
the art of institutionalized psychotics.
Dig it, they like vibrate,
you know what I mean?
And his buildings are much like that,
no hard corners, curvilinear, spirals,
a giant brick snake with trees
on its back. Far out, man!
They’re psychedelic!, but
I don’t think he took drugs.
It just looked he dropped
a few tabs of orange sunshine
or ate a lot of magic mushrooms.
A symphony of anarchy that
somehow hangs together
like a chaotic English garden
in full midsummer bloom.
Or an explosion in a paint factory.
He died twenty some odd years ago
and is buried under a tulip tree
in the Garden of the Happy Deads.
